Chapter 80 - The Light We Lost

My son,

I don’t know when I’ll give you this letter, if I do at all—when you turn eighteen? When you graduate from college? Will I wait and leave it to you in a safe-deposit box to open after I die? Or maybe you’ll grow up knowing all of this. Maybe the secret will be too much to keep.

I need to tell someone what happened these past two days—they’ve been the hardest days of my life so far—and I’ve been so grateful that you’ve been here with me, a part of me. I read an article once, when I was pregnant with your sister, about prenatal consciousness. It’s possible that somewhere deep inside your mind, you have your own record of this, your own memories. But in case you don’t, I’m sharing mine. Because these last days should be memorialized.

Yesterday I found out who your father was. And this morning I killed him. I was sitting with him when it happened. His head was resting on my shoulder. My lips were pressed into his hair.

His doctor, Dr. Mizrahi, walked in and asked me if I was ready.

I tried to say the words. I couldn’t. I just nodded.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she told me.

Your father was brain-dead. He’d been in an explosion in Gaza. He would never recover. I’d talked about that with her, over and over. He had no chance of getting better.

I nodded again. Even though I knew I was doing the right thing, it was so hard. So hard it was nearly impossible.

She watched me for a moment; I could see the well of sympathy in her eyes. I was glad it was her doing this and not someone else—she’s been so kind to me, and to your dad. “You can hold him,” she said.

That’s when I pulled him closer to me, when I wrapped my arms around him and rested my own head on his. “Is this okay?” I asked her.

She nodded.

I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his hair. I couldn’t bring myself to watch as she detached the breathing tube. The machine next to me beeped its panic and my heart felt the same way, alarm bells going off in one long wail. I opened my eyes and watched Dr. Mizrahi silence the machine as its screen flatlined. There was one long, rattling breath, and then nothing.

Complete silence.

Your father was gone.

Tears blurred my vision. I apologized to him. Over and over. I hated what I had to do. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

For years your father and I talked about fate or free will, destiny or decision. I think I have an answer now. It was my choice. It’s been my choice all along. And his. We chose each other.

Right now, you and I are in your father’s apartment. We’re surrounded by him, even though he’s gone. We can see him everywhere, in the golden light that comes in through the bedroom windows at sunrise, in the crimsons and midnight blues of the Persian rug on the floor, in the fragrant coffee beans stockpiled in his kitchen—coffee he’ll never get to drink. But we’ll drink it for him, you and I.

If I’m gone when you’re reading this, look up your father’s name: Gabriel Samson. Look up his art. Look up the exhibit he showed at the Joseph Landis gallery in Chelsea in 2011. I hope you can see, from his photographs, how deeply he felt for the world—and how deeply he and I felt for each other. He was an artist, your father, a brilliant, sensitive, beautiful artist who tried to make the world better with every photograph he took. He wanted to share stories across borders, across boundaries, across races and religions. And he did. But he gave his life for it.

He wasn’t perfect. You should know that. Neither am I. He was selfish sometimes, self-centered, self-important. He thought sacrifice was noble.

He never knew you were coming. I should have told him. Maybe it would’ve changed things. I can only imagine that if he knew about you, his mind-set would have been different, he’d be less willing to jump into the fray, throw himself into the battle. I can’t imagine he would’ve been willing to sacrifice his time with you. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

You were conceived in love—I want you to know that. Whatever comes next, whatever happens after I write this letter, whatever our lives look like when you read this, whoever you grew up calling “Dad”—I need you to know how much I loved your father. It was a passion that transcended time, space, and all logic. I hope that you find a love like that—one that is all-consuming and powerful, that makes you feel like you’re going slightly mad. And if you do find that love, embrace it. Hold on to it. When you give yourself over to love like that, your heart will get bruised. It will get battered. But you will also feel invincible and infinite.

Now that he’s gone, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way again. If anyone else will make me feel as special or as chosen or as desired as he did. As seen. But I count myself lucky to have experienced those feelings at all. I count myself lucky to have met him. And to have you.

You haven’t entered the world yet, but already I love you, my son. And I know that wherever he is, your father does too.